


Sleeping Dogs

by Lilituism



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, I mean look at the summary, M/M, Medical ickiness, Post-Broken Homes, Pre-Slash, Some swearing (canon-typical), start of a Creature AU, what kind of creature shouldn't be hard to guess
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-04-26 23:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5024611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilituism/pseuds/Lilituism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I just have to ask, Thomas. Given the circumstances, could it have been a werewolf?"</p>
<p>“Don’t be ridiculous, Abdul. Werewolves have been extinct in the British Isles for over two centuries. There’s no reason to worry about that.”</p>
<p>~~~~~</p>
<p>As much as Peter respects Nightingale's expertise in these matters, this time he would like to differ.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dog Fight

**Author's Note:**

> It's been years since I last posted a story. This is so exciting! *squee* 
> 
> Ahem, anyway. This began as a one-shot - small, cuddly and complete. Then the bastard grew and grew and I'm currently writing Chapter 4. Go figure. 
> 
> Still, I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing this glorious mess. 
> 
> I should probably note that this whole thing is un-beta'd and while my English is pretty good I'm not a native speaker. So, if you find any grievious mistakes, please tell me, so I can fix it. (And if someone wants to be my beta on this ride, give me a shout.)
> 
> Now. Without much further ado, I present you Sleeping Dogs.

It was a bloody mess. All of it.

After Skygarden – and I was trying very hard to forget the whole affair ever happened, thank you very much – things got complicated. The guys from Professional Standards were breathing down our neck because of _her_ , DCI Seawoll refused to speak with us or maybe just me, I wasn’t sure about that yet and the freaky side of London was in an uproar. A whole tsunami wave of magic had flooded the city when the Tower had come down and released its stores of power. For us, meaning the Falcon Unit - which sounded like something from a comic book, but I secretly thought it was cool -   it meant a doubling in cases of weird shit going down.

In other words I was running myself ragged, the paperwork was beginning to resemble a mountain range and Nightingale was in a constant bad mood. Not that I could really blame him, after all every time the higher-ups got into a fizz because of magically exploding sardine cans, a haunted school bus or our still missing reports on all of the above, it was Nightingale who had to field their calls. It had gone so far that I jokingly suggested we disconnect the Folly’s phone line and I was almost certain that he honestly considered it for a moment.

In summary it was a bloody great mess. And that was only work-related. In our – dare I say it – domestic setting things weren’t much better.

Me and the Inspector were both more snappish than usual which made training a real joy. At the same time, though, the empty chair at our table as well as the room everyone including Molly avoided like the Plague made it painfully clear that there were only us left. It was like a festering wound and I for my part felt an acute and quite irrational need to stay close to Nightingale. Just to make sure, you know? People could be gone so very quickly.

He seemed to bear my hovering with good grace and maybe, possibly some relief as well. In return I tried to be as non-clingy as I could manage. And if I noticed that he spent more time in the tech cave watching rugby than before, then I didn’t see a need to call him out on it. Besides, I did enjoy his company, as crazy as that sounds considering he’s my governor.

So that was the state of affairs when my cell rang at 6:15 in the morning. DS Stephanopoulos greeted me with her usual gruff voice and told me to swing my backside out of bed. There was some actual police work going down near Covent Garden and yours truly was needed to hopefully rule out another Falcon connection. Considering I had only fallen into said bed two hours before after fighting a losing battle against Mount Paperwork I wasn’t exactly thrilled.

Still it’s my job, so I wistfully got up, left a message for the Inspector and took the Asbo across town.

The Met cars were parked in an orchestrated chaos in front of a high-end building with seriously expensive flats. Modern and soulless the building stood squeezed into a street corner as if the architects had found themselves with more building than available space. I shook my head at such an atrocity and walked over to the closest PC.

The constable, a young white guy I vaguely remembered from some case the week before directed me to the third floor. Inside the building was as soulless as its outward appearance. White walls, glinting metal stairs, large windows with thin metal frames. I trudged up the steps feeling oddly guilty for leaving dirty boot-prints on the white-tiled floor.

When I got to the third floor I didn’t have to look for the right apartment. The white wooden door was wide open, the lock obviously busted. I had seen similar damage before when the first officers on scene decided on a forced entry.

I walked over, preparing myself to look as awake as possible and hoping that this didn’t turn out to be my kind of investigation. Stepping into the apartment I surveyed my surroundings closely. It was a modern, white walled and tiled space with hardly a personal touch in sight. No picture frames, no knick-knacks, no deco pieces. It was cold, distant and sterile. But that wasn’t what grabbed my attention the moment I stepped across the threshold. Not at all.

I had barely set foot in the apartment that the vestigia sent me reeling. Feral anger flooded my senses followed by paralysing fear. A warning growl, a high shrieking laugh full of malice. The smell of wet fur and moss, of overly sweet flowers and sour milk, all mixed curiously with a whiff of expensive aftershave.

I blinked slowly to suddenly find DS Miriam Stephanopoulos right in front of my face peering at me through narrowed eyes. Looking past her I found myself leaning awkwardly against the wall and realised that I must have stumbled into it like a drunk when the vestigia hit. Now Stephanopoulos was looking me up and down in a very has-he-finally-snapped kind of way, but I like to think I also detected a bit concern there.

“Sorry”, I said, pushing off the wall and brushing myself off. “Definitely one of ours.”

The sergeant frowned unhappily, but nodded. “I thought you might say that. When we walked in here, we all felt bloody uncomfortable. Figured I might as well call you in. Even if it looks pretty cut and dry.”

“It does? What happened?” She handed me a noddy suit that I somehow wrestled into, then she led me into what must have been the living room and I tried to ignore the slight dizziness that still clung to me. Must have been a combination of too little sleep and a whammy of vestigia.

I shook my head and concentrated on the grisly scene I had stepped into.

Against a formerly off-white sofa lay a woman. Or at least what I thought might have been a woman once. She was mauled. Strips of flesh were ripped away and where her face had been was only bloody pulp. Blood pooled around her while smears and splatters decorated the whole eastern wall. I looked to Stephanopoulos seriously wondering what about the carnage she felt to be cut and dry.

“Lydia Chesterfield, 34. Neighbours reported a heated argument between her and her husband, Rupert Chesterfield. Not the first argument either. A Mr. Egdware, next-door neighbour finally called it in. That was 2 hours ago. The first officers on scene found a silent apartment, only a dog barking and growling when they knocked. Given the neighbour’s description of threats and screams, they broke open the door, fended off the family’s pet – some large wolfhound or something - and found her like this. The husband is missing, we’re already out looking for him. Dog’s locked in the bathroom. BARTA’s on their way.”

I nodded. BARTA was the British Animal Rescue and Trauma Care Association. I had never worked with them before, but it made sense that they’d come out for this one.

“You think the dog did it?” I asked just be sure.

“What else? Look at this mess.”

True. “And the husband ran when it happened.” I concluded more than asked.

“It’s likely. Hell, maybe he even set the beast on his wife, who knows. Fact is he’s not here and he didn’t call 999.”

We were silent for a moment and watched the forensics guys bustle around the scene.

It made sense. Mummy and daddy argue, the dog thinks his master is threatened or maybe the guy even ordered it to attack. The animal flips, mauls the woman, the man panics and flees the scene. Case solved. Well, almost.

It was a good theory, but it didn’t explain the amount of vestigia that covered the apartment like a heavy blanket.

“Any sign that he might have been a practitioner? Or she? Or hell, the dog? Any books, strange objects, anything?”

Stephanopoulos glared at me, but shook her head.

So I told her I’d like to have a look around and she left me to do my thing. By now I had a tried and trusted strategy when it came to uncanny crime scenes. Start with the body – check. Look for vestigia in the area – big check. Go through the books and personal objects to see if something screams evil magical overlord. Which was what I concentrated on now.

I was through half the shelves by the time BARTA arrived. They hadn’t many books, mostly light romance novels, a bit of financial textbooks and a couple for dog owners, but nothing that jumped out at me, figuratively or literally, you never know.

From what I believed to be the bathroom I heard furious barking and turned. A painfully young constable, white guy with a seriously pale complexion who I’d never seen before was trying desperately to hold on to a huge dirty grey dog. It had sleek half-long fur, a long snout with quite long and sharp-looking teeth and mad hazel eyes. And it was furious. Twisting left and right, its jaws snapping madly at the constable’s hands.

From the hall I heard the BARTA guys curse, then they carefully came closer to try and help. From what I could see I gathered that young-over-eager constable boy wanted to impress his boss and hand over the likely murder weapon – living and livid as it was.

I wasn’t the only one who could see the catastrophe forming. Stephanopoulos ordered her people to stand back and close the bloody apartment door. And yours truly? Well, before I could really think about it I stupidly took a step forward. I honestly can’t say what I expected to do to help, but I never got a chance to find out anyway.

In that very moment the dog managed to break the officer’s hold. But instead of turning on the scared kid it rushed forward towards the closing apartment door. It didn’t get there. An obstacle stood in its way. Unfortunately said obstacle happened to be me.

It all happened so quickly that all I managed to do was raise my arms in front of my body to protect my neck and head. A reflex that probably saved my life.

The dog crashed into me in a flurry of bristling fur and flying slobber. It felt like being hit by a car. A car with teeth. Amidst shouts and yells and falling backwards the beast closed it jaws around my left forearm. Pain shot through me like an arrow and I must have screamed, though I can’t remember for sure. I landed hard on the floor, the weight of the dog pushing me down. My head bounced off the ground adding a counterpoint to the pain in my arm. I felt dizzy.

The beast was snarling around its hold on me. I could feel its teeth scratch my bones and I was sure it was going to rip my arm off entirely. I could feel the sour taste of bile rising, but forced it back down. It wouldn’t help anyone if I puked on the dog and likely managed to choke myself.

My sense of time became blurred, but one memory stood out, one rule Nightingale had drilled into me. Never do magic with a possible head injury. It was one of the first rules he had set for me as an apprentice. It was good rule. Seeing as magic alone could turn a brain into a withered vegetable.

But considering the alternative of death and dismemberment I decided it was acceptable to make an exception.

Concentrating as best as I could and given the situation that wasn’t much, I grappled with the correct forma and let got. Not even I could miss at this close-up distance. The fireball hit the beast right in the juncture of neck and chest. It ripped through fur and tissue and fur again and left a scorch mark on the ceiling. But I only learned about that much later.

The dog’s grip loosened with a pained whine and it collapsed on top of me, while I in turn flopped back, completely wiped out. The whole desperate struggle hadn’t taken more than a minute or two at most, but I felt as if I had gone seven rounds with Mike Tyson and lost.

My arm was throbbing fiercely and the pain was echoed by my head. I felt woozy and found it hard to draw a deep breath. Black spots were dancing in my vision. The voices of Stephanopoulos and the others were strangely muted and I couldn’t make sense of what they were saying.

Someone pulled the dead beast off me and breathing became easier again. I wanted to thank them, but my tongue felt heavy in my mouth and I couldn’t form the words.

Stephanopoulos’s face swam into focus. Her lips were moving, but all I could hear was a strange rushing sound.

Then a hand touched my injured arm and this time I am certain I screamed. Which was the final straw as far as my body was concerned and I didn’t really feel guilty about passing out and letting others deal with the mess.


	2. Rest for the Wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: Thank you so much for the many kudos, comments and subscriptions! You guys rock! 
> 
> For this chapter I would like to point out that, while I am a medical student I'm not an English medical student, so procedures might not be described correctly. I hope you'll accept it as creative license. I tried to be as accurate as possible. 
> 
> Also, as a heads-up for further chapters, I would like to say that my view on werewolves is heavily influenced by Terry Pratchett's Discworld novels. My version of werewolves is not identical, mind you, but if you find something oddly familiar it's probably taken from there. 
> 
> Now all that remains to be said is: Have fun with Chapter 2.

I came to in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. And let me tell you, that’s not a good place to wake up confused and in pain. A stranger - white guy, ginger hair shorn to a fuzz with freckles all over his face - was leaning over me, far too close for my taste. I was tied to a hard surface and everything was rocking and swaying. Oh, and my whole left arm felt like it was repeatedly stabbed with a red-hot poker.

I wanted to jerk up, push the guy away and yell at him for good measure. Sadly, they had fixated me perfectly, so all I managed was a pathetic bucking move. Still that was enough to send fire racing up my left arm and what was supposed to be an angry demand to back off turned into a pained yelp. And even that was muffled by the oxygen mask someone had placed over my face.

Why someone felt that some extra oxygen would help my throbbing arm, I’ll never understand. Maybe it’s a standard treatment, but still. Odd.

In any case, my sudden agitation startled the paramedic who stumbled back a bit. So far so good. What I hadn’t expected was for him to come back with a syringe. Ignoring my slightly frantic headshake, he added whatever it was to the IV line I hadn’t noticed until then.

I spent the rest of the ambulance ride in la-la-land.

 

~~~

 

Whatever they had dosed me with was the good stuff. When I woke up the next time I felt like I was floating a foot above the bed.

I blinked my eyes open to find myself – surprise – in hospital. From the noise around me I guessed I was still in A&E and I was proven correct by the painfully young doctor who suddenly materialized next to my bed. When I looked at him I saw light spots twirling around him and grinned. Aren’t drugs wonderful?

The guy looked barely out of kindergarten with an open milky white face and short blond hair. Under normal circumstances I would have been worried. Right this moment? They could have sent in a chimpanzee in a white coat and I would have considered it groovy.

I grinned at the kid like a loon and it took me a good while to realize had asked me something. Huh.

“Whazzat?” Yes, well, you try forming actual words under sedation and see how it goes.

“How are you feeling, constable?”

“Uuuh, call’m Peeetr.” That was just embarrassing.

“Alright, Peter. How do you feel? Are you in any pain?”

“Nnnope. Feel kinda floaty.” Better. Not by much, but you take what you can get.

“Yes, that’d be the medication. I’ll just-“

“Peter!” Both me and the kid – had he ever introduced himself? I couldn’t remember – turned towards the newcomer. The sudden movement made my head swim, but I managed another dopey smile for the three Walids that had entered my cubicle.

“Doc! Heeey!” I greeted him. I would like to say that I didn’t remember any of this later on. Sadly, that would be a lie.

Dr. Walid stopped short and flicked his gaze from me to the kid and back again.

“Erm, they sedated him in the ambulance, Dr. Walid.” Even in my incapacitated state I could feel anxiety pouring off the youngster. “The paramedics described him as agitated. They were afraid he’d hurt himself further.”

“I see.” Walid frowned unhappily and turned to me. “I just heard that you were injured, Peter. I don’t even know what you managed to do to yourself this time. Care to tell me?”

During his speech he’d already zeroed in on the blood spotted bandages around my arm. He came to stand right next to me and carefully touched the bandages. Despite the drug-induced haze I flinched.

“Dog bite, doc. Biiiig dog. Not, not Toby, you know. Toby’s nice. He wouldn’t bite me. Molly bit me once, though. D’you know that? Mind you, I asked her to. But’d still hurt. I – ouch!”

He’d mostly ignored my rambling with the exception of a sharp look at the mention of Molly and had gently started to take off the bandages. The jostling was enough to send pain spiking up my arm again.

“I’m sorry, Peter, but I have to see the wounds. Dr. Kavarny will assist me.” The kid nodded so fast his head might have fallen off if it hadn’t been fastened to his body. I giggled at the mental image. “Keep talking, Peter.” My attention floated back to Dr. Walid. “A dog bit you in the arm, what happened then?”

I tried to ignore the throbbing pain and concentrate.

“I, erm, fell. On my back. The dog was on top of me. It was real heavy, y’know. Thought it’d rip off my arm. So I, so I shot it. You know? Like Nightingale and the tanks.”

I could see Walid’s gaze flickering to the other doctor. But for the time being it seemed he wanted his assistance more than he needed to keep this conversation between us. Besides, he could always claim it was the drugs talking.

“So, the dog is dead?”

I nodded and regretted it right away, because it sent the room spinning.

Suddenly I heard Walid inhale sharply and when I looked down I could see the bloody mess that was my left arm. It was still oozing blood and had seemingly mutated into a swollen purple lump.

“Ouch”, I said, meeting Walid’s worried gaze.

“No kidding. You don’t do anything by half, it seems. I’ll talk to my surgeon colleagues right away. That needs to be cleaned out and repaired surgically, I’m afraid. Any other injuries you forgot to tell me about?”

I was about to shake my head, but thought better of it.

“Nnnno?”

“He hit his head in the fall”, intervened the other doctor.

“He WHAT?!” In a split-second, Walid, the calm and collected medical expert disappeared and in his place Walid, the worried mother-bear appeared.

“You knew he had a possible head injury and didn’t think to mention it?!”

Both the youngster and I flinched.

“What if it’s not the drugs making him loopy? Did you even think about that? No? No neurological check? Nothing? You were just going to stitch up his arm and wait for him to keel over from haemorrhaging into his brain?! And you!” He suddenly switched targets and turned to me. I shrank into my pillow. “You did ma – you attacked that dog with a head injury?! Didn’t Thomas tell you what could happen?! Or did you simply ignore one of the most important rules?! Do you have a death wish?!”

He was breathing hard and I could see the concern in his eyes.

Dr. Kavarny had retreated into the corner of the cubicle and I had hunched down as far as the bed allowed.

Walid closed his eyes for a moment and visibly forced himself to calm down.

“I’m sorry. I’m just… That was very foolish, Peter. Even though I understand it was an emergency. Still…”

He shook his head and I could see the cogs turning in his mind.

“You’re getting an MRI before everything else.” Another head shake. “Let’s hope you didn’t cause any irreparable damage. Because I for my part do not want to tell Thomas that you fried your circuits once and for all.”

I agreed meekly and he organised everything from my arm being re-bandaged to getting an emergency slot in the MRI.

I didn’t protest. For one Walid wasn’t the only one who really hoped the magic I had done after my fall hadn’t caused an aneurysm or something like that. Besides I consider him a friend and seeing him so obviously worried was unsettling. Also arguing while doped up on meds is awkward at best and always rather useless.

Thankfully the MRI showed no trauma and no bleeding. Everyone heaved sighs of relief.

Then things happened very quickly. I was pretty much taken from Radiology directly to the preparation area for surgery. Do not pass go, do not collect a little dignity.

I felt like a piece of meat lying there in the middle of the room. With strangers milling around in hospital garb. While I wore nothing but a skimpy open-backed gown. And even that was suddenly and without explanation taken away by some nurse. So there I lay, naked and shivering, with the mad scientist brigade bustling around me pretty much ignoring my existence.

Never had I imagined I’d be so happy to hear the words “I’m going to put you to sleep now, Mr. Grant.” Whatever humiliation happened afterwards, I was happily asleep for the duration.

 

~~~

 

Waking up in strange surroundings was becoming something of a bad habit I decided.

This time I didn’t come to quickly, instead I slowly drifted towards wakefulness. The first thing I consciously noticed was the soft pillow under my head, followed by a dull throbbing in my left arm. It took me a long moment to remember why that might be.

Next came sound. To be precise, a low conversation nearby. I knew the voices well.

“-are optimistic.” That was Dr. Walid. “There will be scars, that can’t be avoided. But they were confident that he’ll retain full range of motion. Most importantly the MRI of his head came back blank.”

“That’s a relief.” Nightingale. I could actually hear the relief in his cultured voice. Instantly I felt better. I can’t help it. My boss just has that effect on me. And no, that’s not weird in any way, absolutely not.

“Animal bites always carry a big risk for infection. He’s getting antibiotics through his IV right now, but he’ll need to continue taking them orally for at least two weeks.”

“Of course. I will make sure he takes them.” And he would, too. I just knew it.

“Good. Anything new about the case?”

I tried to focus.

“I went to the scene while Peter was in surgery. The vestigia there was impressive. The working theory is that the dog killed the woman for whatever reason. The husband should be able to clarify matters. He hasn’t been found yet, though.” And if his tone of voice was anything to go by, then the husband should pray fervently that it would not be Nightingale who found him. The fact made sent both worry and warmth through me.

“Gruesome. The woman is down in the morgue. I already ordered a full work-up on her, including serology for HIV and the likes. I doubt it will come back positive, but better safe than sorry.” It had better not come back positive! That was one thing I could bloody well do without.

“I trust in your medical experience, Abdul.” For a moment I wondered if the Inspector even knew what HIV was. Then I remembered the horrible incident around my explanation of the small intestine and decided to leave that topic in Walid’s capable hands.

There was a rustle of clothes from where I estimated the doorway to be.

“I just have to ask, Thomas. Given the circumstances, could it have been a werewolf? And if so, what should we expect?”

Fuck me! A werewolf?! I almost sat bolt upright at that, but stopped myself in time to hear Nightingale huff.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Abdul. Werewolves have been extinct in the British Isles for over two centuries. They were unable to adapt to a modernized world. There’s no reason to worry about that.”

What a relief. I really didn’t fancy growing hairy and savage once a month and terrorizing young ladies in skimpy night-dresses. Or whatever the hell real werewolves did.

I heard Walid chuckle slightly.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. I have to go see my other patients now; I’ll come by again later.” I heard the sound of someone patting another’s arm or shoulder, then the door opened and closed.

There was a sigh that could only come from Nightingale. He sounded tired, but I wasn’t surprised. The last couple of weeks had been hard on all of us. But I knew he felt a special kind of responsibility that kept him awake at night. I heard him often enough when my own insomnia kept me up.

Footsteps came closer, accompanied by the familiar clacking of his cane. Then he must have pulled something over, a chair most likely. I heard the rustle of clothes as he sat down.

“How long have you been listening?” Amusement sounded in his voice.

Busted. But not really much of a surprise.

I took the time to slowly force my eyes open, squinting against the glare of fluorescent lights on white walls and furniture.

When I looked to the side, I saw that I had been right. Nightingale was sitting in a chair by my bedside, his cane balanced on his lap. His usually impeccable poker face cracked just enough to show just how knackered he felt.

Concern shown in his grey eyes as he mustered me, clearly waiting for an answer.

“For a bit.” Bloody hell, I sounded horrible!

Nightingale winced in sympathy and reached over to the bedside table where a glass of water waited.

Never had simple water tasted so sweet. Sadly, he took it away after just a few sips.

“You don’t want to make yourself ill.”

“How long…?” I still croaked like a frog with a sore throat, but it was better than before.

“Have you been here? Half a day. You were brought in this morning around 8. It is late afternoon now.”

I nodded slowly. That wasn’t too bad. Looking at Nightingale and raising a brow I tried to silently ask what the verdict was on my arm. It was a good thing we knew each other quite well by now, so he understood. Or he was secretly a mind-reader. I wouldn’t put it past him.

“They had to operate on your arm. As I understand it they repaired muscle damage and cleaned out the wound as best as they could. They did not put in stitches yet, so the wound is still open under the bandages. Walid said it’s to lower the risk of infection.”

He seemed to not be very happy with that. I could relate. I wasn’t very happy with that either. In fact, I thought it was a gross and really creepy thought that some stranger had cut open my already mangled arm and had then decided to just leave it like that.

Nightingale huffed at my grimace.

“Walid assured me that is the regular treatment and that everything is actually looking good. You are to rest your arm for a few weeks and slowly mobilise it with physiotherapy. You also need to take antibiotics and painkillers regularly. I already have your prescriptions. You will stay here tonight for observation. Tomorrow or the day after you can come to the Folly where Walid will take over your treatment. Then, if all goes as planned, you will remain with a few scars, but no impairment.”

I nodded, trying to take in everything he’d told me and we were silent for a while.

Nightingale sat staring at the wall, lost in thought it appeared while I tried to accept the prospect of several weeks of medical leave and treatment. Or, much more likely, piles and piles of paper work and Latin books with a little painful exercise thrown in now and again. Something to look forward to.

Eventually, our eyes met again and Nightingale gave me a small rueful smile.

“I wish I could have accompanied you today. Events might have taken a different turn.”

I shook my head.

“You couldn’t have known, sir. And frankly, it all happened so fast, I don’t think even you could have stopped the attack.”

Not that my words eased the guilt I could see in his clear gaze.

I like to think I understood its cause. Ever since the fiasco of Skygarden Tower I had hardly ever left the Folly on my own. In fact, in the first week or so after the explosion the only times I had set foot outside the house was with Toby and Nightingale had more often than not found an excuse to tag along. Something he had never done before. But with Lesley’s betrayal so fresh a wound, I believe we both felt uneasy without the other there. That didn’t make walking your dog with your boss any less weird. Poor Toby had been forced to contend with very short and speedy walks.

Considering the threat posed by Lesley’s knowledge, I had wondered about the security of the Folly whenever we were both out. That was until Nightingale told me that Molly kept dragging our temporary houseguest, one Russian Nightwitch, down to the super-secret door in the basement where she lay in wait for whatever poor soul may cross the threshold. I had subsequently decided not to go down there without Nightingale. Ever.

By now Varvara Sidorovna had at last been accessorized with her special bracelet and send to help Prof. Postmartin as a kind of creepily over-qualified secretary. She seemed to rather enjoy it from what I’d heard.

In the meantime the Folly had gained a few new defences. I didn’t know how or what, but I knew that Nightingale had spent several of his sleepless nights working on something in the entrance hall. Then one day he suddenly declared it was okay to go out again as before. So, yes, definitely new defences.

The thing was, we didn’t really split up after that. We were both glad to not be confined to the house anymore, sure. But more often than not I would find Nightingale accompanying me to new possible crime scenes – and I still delighted over Seawoll’s face whenever my boss swept unto the scene – and I got to tag along to several interviews and negotiations that I wouldn’t have been allowed to attend before.

And the funny thing is, I didn’t mind. Not in the slightest. Sure, most of the negotiations were rather dull, but getting to see the Nightingale in action was definitely worth it.

From the very beginning I had admired his focus and dedication and recognized his experience, but with time and all the shit we’d been through I had started to like him as a person. And with Lesley gone, my governor now constituted as my best friend. How crazy was that?

In quiet moments and in the recesses of my mind I could also admit that maybe, possibly I had caught myself staring at him inappropriately a few times. And I prayed to everyone who’d listen that he hadn’t noticed. But he was an attractive man with an impeccable sense for distinguished style. And really, I wasn’t the only one. Several of the other officers – most of them female, mind you – seemed to enjoy the view as well. And if I felt a tiny bit of jealousy stirring at that, then that was a Pandora’s Box I wasn’t prepared to open. Certainly not now, most likely never.

It seemed that, lost in my musings - about my boss of all people - I had fallen asleep again. Which wasn’t exactly the polite thing to do, but I had just had surgery and was pumped full of heaven-knew-what, so I figured there were extenuating circumstances.

 

~~~

 

In the end I had to spend three days in the hospital. Nightingale came by every day and we’d talk for a bit, mostly work-related stuff or rather how they still hadn’t found the husband, and he’d leave me with fresh clothes – never anything I would have chosen, but points for effort – and a bit of “light reading”. At the very least the Latin helped me with falling asleep.

My other regular visitor was Dr. Walid who came by at least twice a day to poke and prod me and to hear how I was doing. Curiously he seemed to go temporarily deaf whenever I told him I was in danger of dying a Latin-induced death of boredom. Then again, he did slip me the new Neil Gaiman novel, so he wasn’t entirely heartless.

Even then, reading – or really doing anything – one-handed sucks. So I spent a lot of time simply staring at the ceiling – white - , the walls - also white - , my bandaged arm - depending on the last re-wrapping either white or with red blotches - , or the door - white as well who would have guessed.

I had tried watching TV, but after a couple of hours I had been tempted to throw the remote at it. Which led to my latest thesis that day-time TV was a devilish device thought up by some hushed-up conspiracy to dumb down the population. When I had told Nightingale, he had graced me with that look that said he wasn’t sure whether to be amused or worried about my mental state. Then he had quickly changed the subject.

The most exciting event had been the visit by my parents. And I couldn’t decide whether this constituted as positive or very, very negative excitement. In any case, I was left with ringing ears from a long and passionate lecture by my mother and enough food to keep the whole hospital going for a couple days. Also the nurses seemed to always check afterwards if my mother was anywhere nearby before setting foot in my room.

So it was that I felt close to a psychotic break when Walid finally swept into the room one morning to hand me my discharge papers.

I got my wounds cleaned and re-wrapped, then I gathered my stuff with a nurse’s help and headed towards the exit.

There were probably enough cabs I could take back to the Folly. Normally I would have called someone to pick me up, but Lesley wasn’t an option any more, Nightingale was busy doing both our jobs and if I had to choose between my mother’s overbearing hovering and a chatty cab driver, then the decision was a no-brainer.

But as I was making my way to the cab stand, my overnight bag slung awkwardly over my right shoulder, I spotted the familiar sight of the Jag with Nightingale behind the wheel reading a case report from what I could see.

I smiled, relieved and touched that he’d take the time to drive me home, so I walked over and gently knocked on the window. He looked up and gave me his usual half-smile before getting out to take my bag.

The short walk from my room to the car park had been enough to set my arm aflame again and I was very grateful for the ride, even if the car’s movements, no matter how carefully Nightingale drove, sent spikes of pain through my whole left side.

Conversation was sparse during the ride for which I was thankful as I was busy gritting my teeth. Of course, I tried to thank Nightingale, but he seemed positively insulted that I had considered for a second that he would leave me to the London cab company. I smiled at that and thanked him anyway.

Back at the Folly, we left the Jag in the garage and I happily didn’t protest when Nightingale took my bag. Molly was waiting for us at the door, but after a thorough look at me she hissed, turned on her heels and left. I huffed, but accepted it. She had never been overly fond of me.

Nightingale frowned at her retreating form, but also let it slide at least for now. Instead he concentrated on getting us both into the house and up the stairs to my room without either of us tumbling down and breaking something.

“Tell me if you need a break, Peter. There is no use in endangering your progress and no shame in admitting a need for rest.”

I stopped to give him a small smile, but it probably looked more like a grimace. Naturally I didn’t ask for a break – I’m male and British, remember, besides, it was my boss helping me up the stairs, so no.

Still I was grateful when Nightingale noticed after a few steps that I was swaying slightly. He sighed and slung an arm around me. Sadly I was too knackered to appreciate it fully.

Painstakingly slowly we reached my room on the third floor. Nightingale helped me over to the bed where I plonked down unceremoniously. He gave me his were-you-raised-by-wolves-look, but didn’t say anything.

I sat there a bit hunched and looked down at my feet. Shoes. Bloody hell. In the hospital I had been ready to leave barefoot, because bending down jostled my arm in such a way that passing out from pain was a real possibility.

I heard Nightingale sigh again and gazed up in time to see him kneeling down – designer suit and everything – in front of me to unlace my shoes.

“Peter, you really need to learn to ask for help. I would hope that you trust me enough to know I would never hold it against you.”

Great, now I actually felt guilty.

“I’m sorry, sir. It’s just….. I don’t like it when others see me helpless.” _Especially when it’s you._ I didn’t add.

He hummed noncommittally, but sought out my gaze and held it.

“No one likes that. But everyone needs help some time. Furthermore, you’re my apprentice and it is my duty to take care of you and help you whenever necessary. So”, he got up, but didn’t look away. “I do hope you will let me know when you need something.”

I nodded ruefully, creeped out by all the sentimentality.

While I had never understood the whole stoic approach to pain – there was usually a good reason you felt like roadkill and ignoring your body’s needs only made it worse in my experience – I wasn’t fond on the concept of asking for assistance. Taking good care of myself was fine, including enough rest and medical intervention if necessary. Letting someone else take care of me, now that was a whole different affair. So I fully intended to follow the doctor’s advice and rest. But asking for help – especially Nightingale of all people – would only happen in dire circumstances.

The Inspector seemed to accept my silent reply for now and left before I could thank him.

For a moment I simply sat there wondering why he’d left the door open when he swept back in holding a glass of water and a few pills.

I made a face and he gave me a stern look. Just because I understand their usefulness doesn’t mean I like them.

“Peter.” A certain admonishing ring to his voice told me clearly not to argue.

I huffed and held out my good hand. “Fine.”

I took the bloody pills under his watchful eyes and laid back on the bed. Fully dressed which earned me another look, but Nightingale apparently wanted to pick his battles carefully, so he just shook his head, told me he’d be in the mundane library and to yell if I needed him.

My left arm was strapped to my body to minimize movement which was fine for standing or sitting but a pain when laying down. It was impossible to find a comfortable position, but the pills I had taken made me drowsy and that in combination with exhaustion sent me to sleep rather quickly.

My dreams were full of wild forests and the rush of the hunt.


	3. Puzzled Pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank for the Kudos and comments!
> 
> Have fun with the next chapter. Oh, and cookies for everyone who catches the teeny-tiny Boston Legal reference. ; )

I woke to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Which was odd as I shouldn’t have been able to hear them through the door. Then I remembered Nightingale leaving it open earlier and figured he must have left it that way when he swept out the second time.

The footsteps grew closer and I blinked my bleary eyes open. I heard the door creak – shouldn’t it have been open already?! – and Dr. Walid came in, his medical bag in hand.

“Peter, you’re awake. How do you feel? Thomas told me you were quite exhausted.”

“Better, I guess.” I replied, fighting to sit up properly. Walid quickly came over to help.

“You took your medication?”

I chuckled wryly. “Didn’t get a choice really.”

“Good.” He scowled at me. “Despite what you may think, we don’t hand out medication for the fun of it. But it can only work properly, if you take it as prescribed. Are we clear?”

I understood the necessity. Didn’t mean I had to like it.

Still, I had seen Walid brow-beating Thomas “Tiger-Tank” Nightingale himself after the whole Punch and Judy case and I really did not want to be on the receiving end of his tirades.

“Crystal.”

“Splendid. Now. I’ll have a look at that arm and clean the wounds while I’m at it.” He started unwrapping the bandages and I supressed a wince. “Is anything different? Any tingling sensation or numbness in your fingers? Can you move everything okay?”

I nodded and assured him that while still painful I could feel my fingers just fine and moving them wasn’t a problem either. He still had me do certain gestures like a fist or spreading my hand wide against his grip to test my strength. The movement sent spikes of fire up my arm, but Abdul seemed satisfied.

Then came the cleaning part. Let me tell you, having someone dab antiseptic ointment into open wounds, no matter how carefully, is a particular kind of torture. I gritted my teeth, but cussed up a storm mentally, not that it helped. Luckily Walid knew what he was doing and was done in a few minutes.

When I looked at him I saw he was frowning. Now, frowning doctors are usually bad news for patients.

“What’s the verdict, doc?”

His eyes flickered up to meet mine, he seemed worried.

“The area around the wound is a bit inflamed. It could just be a normal reaction to the trauma, but I’m worried it’s a sign of infection. Do you feel feverish or like you’re about to come down with something?”

Before I could even start to reply he had his hand on my forehead. He hummed thoughtfully. “You don’t feel feverish, but then again that’s not a reliable way of measuring temperature. Hold on a second.”

I watched him go through his medical bag. The thing smelled so strongly of disinfectant that it made my nose itch.

“Did you spill your anti-germ spray in there?”

He looked from his search, confusion plain in his eyes. “What? No, why do you ask?”

I shrugged. “Smells like you washed it with the stuff.”

His gaze went from me to the bag and back again. “I don’t smell anything.”

“Really?!” I could feel my eyes watering slightly. “How can you not smell that?” A wry grin sneaked onto my face. “Maybe we should run some tests on you for a change. Wouldn’t want you to lose use of your senses.”

He huffed and sent me a mock-glare. Then he pulled out an ear thermometer and held it up like a trophy.

“Now, Peter, left or right?” He waved the hand-held apparatus.

I sighed and turned so my left ear was facing him, still fighting the urge to sneeze. The measuring took only a moment, then a beep pronounced that my body was currently running at 38.4 degrees Celcius. Slightly elevated, no fever. At least not yet.

The worry was back in Walid’s eyes and was probably mirrored in mine. I knew from special training and from films that an infected wound could very quickly turn live-threatening. I resolved then and there that I would take every bloody antibiotic Walid gave me.

I told him as much and he gave me a half-hearted chuckle.

“I would hope so.” He sighed deeply. “I will add a slightly stronger one to your medication. And you or Thomas need to take your temperature at least three times a day. It’s best if you note down the time and temp. I want you to be resting for the time being. That means no practising magic, no policing, no physical work at all. You may sit in the library to read a bit and you can eat downstairs with Thomas. Otherwise I want you in bed. Are we clear?”

I grumbled a bit, but promised to be a good boy which seemed to appease him.

He left shortly after that but I could hear him talk to Nightingale in the hall after a moment. What my governor had been doing lurking outside my room I didn’t know, but their voices were too clear to be from farther away.

Their conversation wasn’t very exciting though. And yes, I eavesdropped. If they hadn’t wanted me to hear they should have moved downstairs.

Basically, Walid gave Nightingale a condensed status report, voicing his concern about infection. I could tell from the Inspector’s serious, almost solemn reply that he shared the doc’s worry. He promised to keep a close eye on me and my treacherous brain mused that he was welcome to look at me all day long as closely as he wanted to, though I would have preferred to be healthy for it. I quickly shut down that line of thought, grumbling to myself about inappropriate wishes and VERY bad ideas.

Huffing and sending a pointed glare at my arm that had started throbbing again with all the jostling, I tried to find a somewhat comfortable position in bed. I gave up after a bit of restless tossing and decided that I had already spent enough time sleeping.

I fought my way out of bed one-handed and with quite a bit more grumbling – and maybe a stray swear word in between – but I managed to find my feet. The room did a slight jig around me, but I blinked it into submission. So far, so good.

I waited for the last bit of dizziness to subside, then I set off towards the library. Maybe Nightingale would come along, then he wouldn’t have to lurk in the corridor like some creep.

Reaching the door, I stepped out, a quip about loitering in front of one’s apprentice’s room on the tip of my tongue. But the hall was deserted. Strange.

I looked both ways, certain that I had heard the Inspector’s conversation with Walid and equally certain about the Folly’s sound-muffling doors and hallways. Still, there was no one there.

I shook my head with a deep frown, but started towards the stairs.

My gait was a bit slower than usual, but otherwise I felt fine. That sadly changed rather suddenly when I came close to the stairs. It was almost dinnertime and Molly was cooking. What, I didn’t know, but a nauseating wave of something sickly sweet staggered me and made me gag reflexively.

Stumbling backwards, I hit the wall and sank to the floor where I fought the urge to puke on the carpet.

So caught in my struggle was I that I didn’t register the measured and then hurried steps that approached me. A hand touched my good shoulder and I flinched. The hand retreated as if burned, but returned with a moment’s hesitation.

I blinked up to find Nightingale’s worried face peering intently at me with a pinched look.

“Peter, what are you doing out of bed?” I managed a small apologetic smile and hoped I wouldn’t end up ruining his shoes. “What’s wrong? Do you feel dizzy? Should I call Abdul back?”

No matter how repressed and collected he usually appeared, his concern showed clearly right this moment.

I wanted to reassure him, tell him that I had been blind-sided by Molly stinking up the Folly with her cooking. Unfortunately, what I did was shake my head which was the final straw for my stomach.

I barely managed to turn to the side and avoid his shoes and suit. I heard him inhale sharply before steadying me with a hand on my chest and the other at the back of my neck. Since I hadn’t had dinner yet, I mostly brought up water and bile followed by dry-heaving for a few minutes.

Through it all, Nightingale kept his grip on me, steadying me, offering a distraction. And as my stomach rebelled painfully, I started to realise that the reason for all this, the sickly sweet smell – now mixed with the sour tang of vomit - that permeated the whole house was subdued to bearable levels by the scent of pines and paper, of candle wax and English tea and Molly’s biscuits mingled with fresh laundry and expensive cologne. With a slight start I connected the smell to Nightingale and felt myself relax slowly.

Had I been thinking clearly, I would have probably started to seriously wonder right then and there. After all, up to that day my senses had been average and all of a sudden I could tell apart the slightest nuance of Nightingale’s scent? Should have tingled my spidey sense well and proper.

But I had just puked on the Folly’s carpet while my governor was holding me up and I felt beyond exhausted as well as strangely safe, basking in the Inspector’s scent. Something that I wouldn’t even admit to under torture and that I was never ever going to mention to Nightingale. I would likely just keel over from utter mortification.

Events after that were a bit of a blur. I hazily felt Nightingale tap my face and I might have mumbled something in reply – I hope to god that it wasn’t something along the lines of “you smell good”, but knowing my luck I said precisely that. Then he called for Molly, much louder than I expected which made me flinch. Which set off my stomach again.

Then there were soft footsteps – since when did Molly make a sound?! – and a sense of woodland, ancient crypts and cooking grease crept into the surrounding scent.

Before I could make sense of events, strong hands hauled me up off the floor. The world spun around me and I think I groaned and clenched my eyes shut. Then I felt myself being lifted between two sets of hands and carried along like a sack of potatoes until my back touched something soft and I was lowered onto my sheets – I tried to ignore the smell of sweat, sickness and something I recognized as inherently me.

Molly’s scent got a bit fainter, while Nightingale’s stayed close. A hand gently felt my forehead. The smell of dinner on a graveyard came back and I felt something being pushed into my ear.

There was a beep, followed by an audible inhale. Raised voices sounded – and why was Nightingale shouting? – far too loud for my pounding head. I borrowed into the pillow with a soft moan and felt the hand return to gently stroke the fuzz on my head.

I was too far gone to make out any words, no matter how loudly spoken and the last thoughts before I drifted off into unconsciousness were _What the hell is wrong with me?!_ and _Fuck me, that went bad fast!_

 

~~~

 

Unfortunately unconsciousness wasn’t as restful as it should have been. Confusing dreams of yellowish grey woods and overwhelming sounds and smells invaded the blank spaces of my mind. In these dreams the world was distorted and lacking colour. I felt soft moss beneath my bare feet and my nose itched with an overload of smells. I wanted to stagger back, turn around and find normality, sanity again but no matter where I turned the woodlands stretched on and on.

Eventually I must have jarred my arm somehow because wakefulness came in a sudden crashing instant. Shaking and drenched in sweat I simply lay there for a long time, blinking at the ceiling.

I blame my half-awake confusion, but it took me incredibly long to notice that even now the waking world seemed bleached and colourless. It wasn’t entirely greyscale but like in my dream the world was out of focus, blurred and with a sepia tint. With mounting panic I hastily looked around the room, trying hard to keep breathing normally. Hoping that all this was just a remnant of my fever-dreams.

The room around me reminded me of a badly taken old photograph. Even the vibrantly ugly shirt one of my aunt’s had given me at some point that currently hung over a chair – I had decided to either give it away or destroy it, the jury was still out on which it would be – was a desaturated and muted blob. Granted, it was still ugly.

I was rambling. And I knew it. But frankly, nothing could ever prepare you to wake up one morning – or in my case evening – to find the world had lost a considerable amount of colour and focus while you’d been sleeping.

Forcing myself to breathe deeply and calmly, I climbed to a seated position and continued looking around. Still bleached. Still blurred. I fought down a bout of dizziness.

Carefully, slowly I blinked. Hoping against hope that this whatever it was would just go away. Nothing. My vision was as lacking as before. What was going on here?! I knew there were diseases, defects and injuries that could fuck with a person’s sight. I also knew – guessed? Let’s stick with knew – that such a thing didn’t just happen during a nap.

I sat there thoroughly confused, trying to make sense of what I saw or rather didn’t see for I don’t know how long. It must have been a while. And slowly I thought that colour was returning and my vision was growing sharper again. It was an excruciatingly slow process, but considering I was doing nothing but stare dumbfounded around my room trying to come up with a logical explanation I noticed the subtle changes. And man, was I glad for it. Even if I still had no idea what was going on.

Eventually my bladder asked for a trip to the bathroom. Slowly I got to my feet, waited out another bout of dizziness and brazenly made the trip to the door. The restroom was only two doors down, but I hoped, prayed almost that Molly had stopped cooking.

I needn’t have worried. What I should have worried about was light. I opened the door like I had done hundreds of times before and was quite literally blind-sided by the glare. Hissing I stumbled a few steps back and clenched my eyes shut.

Bloody hell! Blinking tears away I looked from the normally lit room to the blinding haze of the hallway. Then my gaze flickered to the lamp on the ceiling. It was off. Stunned beyond the ability to cuss properly I tried to wrap my head around the past half hour.

But it wasn’t just the last thirty minutes, was it? The incident with Molly’s cooking stinking up the house, the conversation I shouldn’t have been able to hear and now this! Something was seriously wrong here.

My body chose this moment to remind me that epiphanies were all good and fine but baser needs were requesting a bathroom. Like now.

I took a deep breath, squinted against the brightness and hurried the few steps down the hall. There I had to consciously stop myself from turning on the light.

The room only had a milky window looking out into the yard and I usually had to switch on the overhead even during the day. Right this moment? I didn’t need to. And I was certain that it was already dark outside judging from the clock I had barely managed to read back in my room.

I took my time, acting on automatic while my mind was busy going through events. While doing so I noticed the room getting darker.

So. My vision was returning to normal. I had not smelled more than usual on the way down the hall and my hearing seemed to be back to its normal self as well.

But that didn’t explain why any of my senses had acted up in the first place.

I thought back on the case that started this horror trip while washing my hands. A flat saturated in vestigia, a huge furious dog, the mauled woman and the missing husband. My senses going haywire after being released from the hospital.

I met my own gaze in the mirror, the image only slightly blurred now. Heightened sense of smell. Heightened sense of hearing. Poor vision. After a dog attack.

_Given the circumstances, could it have been a werewolf?_

Walid’s words floated back to me.

My good hand gripped the sink in a white-knuckled grip. A wolf, not a dog. The husband most likely.

Involuntarily my gaze was pulled down to my arm, the images of the attack playing in a loop before my mind’s eye. Not a dog. A wolf. A werewolf! And a bite.

I could see the beast’s teeth before they found their target, hear the snarl while a sharp phantom pain made me flinch. Bitten. I had been bitten. Bitten by a werewolf.

Trembling like a leaf in a hurricane I repeated the thought over and over, but it lost nothing of its horror. Every movie I had seen on werewolves flashed to the forefront of my mind.

Wild savage beasts, mindlessly killing innocents. Hungry insanity. Mindless monsters.

My back hit the opposite wall. I hadn’t noticed I had stumbled away from the terrified man in the mirror.

Monster. The word cut through the fog like a poisoned knife. Werewolves were monsters. And I was turning into one. I was turning into a monster.

I slid down the wall into a seated position. The truth a burning acidic flame in the pit of my stomach.

A small voice in my head tried to calm me down. Nightingale had said werewolves were extinct. It couldn’t have been one. **I** couldn’t be one!

But as much knowledge as the Inspector had, he wasn’t omniscient. He’d been wrong before. And it added up. It all added up into a horrible terrifying picture.

I was a monster.

Tears were pricking my eyes and through my turmoil I could feel something pressing against my mind. Not in an uncomfortable way, but in a naïve show of concern and fear.

I pushed it away, gasping like a fish out of water, but fighting to make no sound. I didn’t want Nightingale to come in and –

Oh my god! I sat up straight, my mental struggle forgotten as a new paralyzing thought took hold. What if the Inspector found me? Or Walid? Or hell, even Molly or Toby? I didn’t want to hurt them. I could never forgive myself.

 _Monster_ , my mind whispered. _Monster. Dangerous._

Struggling to my feet was quite the accomplishment, but I was fueled by the certainty that I could not allow for the chance that someone found me like this. I needed someplace to think. Someplace to figure out what I should do. What I could do. One of the unused rooms. That would do. At least for now.

I don’t know if things would have gone smoother if I had been spotted by someone in the hallway. But as it was I stumbled along unseen.

When my legs threatened to dump me on the carpet I finally chose a door at random and went in.

It was just my luck that it turned out to be the room with the large silver trophies.


	4. Changes and Consequences

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of, allow me to apologize. I am so so sorry for the delay. 
> 
> My old computer died, taking with it everything I had written. My motivation was crushed.  
> Then I was busy studying for my state exam.  
> Now the exam is passed and I have moved back in with my parents for the next couple of months, so I hope things will calm down. 
> 
> I know how much it sucks to wait and wait for a new chapter. I hate it when it happens with stories I read and I'm really terribly sorry I put you through that. 
> 
> Now, I hope you'll enjoy this new chapter.
> 
> I still don't have a beta, so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. Please, point them out to me, so I can correct them.

I had barely slipped into the room when a sensation unlike any I had felt before tore through me. It was like an electric wire, like a heated knife slicing through my very soul.

Reflexively I jumped back, hitting the door and slamming it shut. Something between a yowl and a groan ripped from my throat as I curled into myself. A tiny part of my brain that was still capable of thinking clearly made the connection of werewolf plus silver equals one twitching mess of a constable.

I had to get out of the room. Get away from the tearing sharpness in the air.

I scrabbled for the door handle, my injured arm flexing as well, but the pain was drowned out by the insistent panicked mantra in my head.

_Get out! Get out! Get out! **GET OUT!**_

The last was resonating through me, a deep thrum like a heavy engine coming to life. Fear and pain mixed with the driving need to escape and overrode a boundary I hadn’t known was there.

I was well aware that there were situations where reason and thinking things through didn’t get you anywhere. Situations where you had to trust your instincts. As a copper and an apprentice wizard I had thought I knew quite well what my instinctive side felt like. I was wrong. Or maybe the terms had changed.

In any case, what surged through my mounting panic was far more than a reflexive twist to evade a hit. Or the gut feeling you got around certain people. What I felt right then and there was different, stronger. A wild feral mindset that licked like flames against my psyche threatening to burn away the last drags of sanity.

I resisted. I fought. I fought with everything I had. All those hours practicing formae, shaping my mind, gaining control now payed off. I had fought off glamours before, even one cast by a River Goddess and I had only been a trainee wizard for a few months back then. This, whatever it was, was NOT going to break me!

I managed to mentally grab hold of the twisting snarling _thing_ in my mind and pulled. Hard.

The searing pain eased to a sharp tang and I almost had time to feel relieved. But it was only a split-second before I realized the downside of my actions. I had pulled _it_ away from tearing my mind to shreds, but by doing so I had to pull it **towards** me. If that made any sense.

The wild surge returned with a vengeance, but different, less destructive, more embracing. I think I screamed when the feral energy spilled from my mind into my body. Suddenly my skin felt wrong, too tight, too restrictive. A low keening surrounded me and it took me a long time to realize I was the one making it.

From far away I heard a voice, footsteps, someone calling my name, but to me it was background noise. Unimportant.

Bones were creaking, muscles straining. A shiver ran through me starting in my soul and coursing through my body. I lay curled and twitching on the floor, gasping for breath and still keening with pain and terror.

In some way I understood what was happening, but understanding didn’t help. Not in the slightest.

The clothes I wore were straining, pulled taunt across my heaving form. I could feel the change, my bones shifting and forming anew while muscles adjusted their hold. The most horrible sensation of my internal organs twisting to new positions made me gasp loudly.

My already loose sweat pants slipped, thankfully pulling my shorts with them to make room for a tail. I’m lacking the words to sufficiently describe the feeling of your spine elongating past your butt. Weird doesn’t even scratch the surface. I could feel new bones growing in a few seconds, dragging muscles along to form the shape of a tail.

The bandages that had strapped my injured arm to my chest came loose, pooling on the floor. Reflexively I flexed the now free appendage to help hold my weight, but there was none of the expected agony. In morbid fascination I watched the ugly wound seal itself shut, tissue repairing itself in moments leaving a jagged wide red line. A vicious scar that was quickly hid by the fur sprouting not only on my arms, but my whole body. Hair follicles sprouted all over, and I wanted to scratch my skin raw with the itching it brought.

Another tidal wave swept through me and I howled, writhing on the floor. My whole skull began to shift, my facial bones snapping and reforming into a long canine snout. In my absolute terror I spent a fleeting thought on Lesley and felt a kindred kind of sympathy. Then my teeth cracked and realigned themselves. My tongue, suddenly too long for my mouth lolled past my gasping lips.

I felt like I was being torn apart, shredded into pieces, then sewn back together with mad skill.

Following my head’s anatomical changes my senses went haywire. The shift in perception was far greater than the short episodes I’d experienced so far. Smells and sounds invaded my mind, taking over vital parts that I had used my sight for until then.

And through it all the silver remained a terrible presence, almost physical in its intensity, urging me on, driving the frantic change.

Finally my body settled and I took a moment to gulp in lungfulls of air. I can’t say how long the shift took, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute or two. It had felt like years.

Outside the door I could now clearly make out Nightingale calling my name, concern heavy in his voice as well as an odd tone that I eventually identified as fear.

I was too out of it to react. Exhaustion, confusion and the maddening song of the silver leaving me a quaking mess.

The only clothing that had more or less stayed on during the change was my old T-Shirt I used for sleeping. Now it hung on my heaving frame. The small part of me still capable of reasoning whispered that I’d have to get rid of it if I wanted to move freely.  

The feral part that I identified as my newly gained wolfish self protested the loss of time. Time that could be spent running, fleeing.

I reached out mentally and smacked what I thought of as the beast’s head, before trying to coordinate two more legs than I was used to into struggling out of the shirt. The wolf snarled at my human self, but eventually lent its instinctual knowledge to sort out our limbs.

Had the situation been different, I would have seriously worried over the fact that I had begun to think of myself as two different beings. As it was I wrangled the wolf into a compromise and turned to the door as soon as the shirt was off. It was there I realized another problem.

Hands. You never appreciated the blighters until they were suddenly replaced by paws. I growled at the door, scratching against the wood. My mind was still driven by the need to _get away! Get out!_

I whined in agitation. The handle of the door was about even my snout and it should have been easy enough to operate. Unfortunately I was far too frantic to think things through. My claws left deep gouges in the wood and a stray part of my scattered mind remarked hysterically that Molly would have my head on a platter for that.   

Then I heard footsteps hurrying closer. I wanted to shrink back, but the overwhelming presence of the silver in the room kept me as close to the door as physically possible. Of course! The change had been far from quiet and Nightingale might have been already looking for me.

Terror warred with elation. Nightingale would open the door for me. I could get out, away from the silver taint. The wolf yapped in elation, but I held back. The image of Lydia Chesterfield’s mangled body was all too fresh in mind. Mauled by her own husband. Killed in a savage attack.

What if werewolves were as monstrous as the movies showed them? What if I attacked my own governor and mentor? My friend? Hurt him or maybe even worse?

So far I felt I had a tenuous hold on the wolf, but then I was alone in here.

The footsteps stopped and for a short moment I relished in Nightingale’s scent wafting through the door, bringing with it a feeling of _home and safety. Pack_ , the thought resonated with both me and the wild beast. Then the click of the door announced its opening and the doubts and panic returned. Instinct took over, pushing what rational thought I had left to the backseat.

I felt my fur stand on end, my ears flattened as I growled in terrified warning. A sharp inhale was heard, then the door was pushed open swiftly. I recognized the shift in breathing and the subtle change in smell. _Shock,_ the wolf translated. _Fear. Worry. Confusion._ My eyes supplied a blurred shape that flinched back slightly. And then there it was – the stirring of magic. Like the heavy charge right before lightning struck. An electric feeling so heavy in the air it stole my breath. Nightingale’s signare blazed stronger than I had ever felt it.

That was it. I had a fleeting moment in which I tried to rationalize his imminent attack on an obvious threat, but the wolf pummeled through my flimsy explanations. It had no understanding or need of abstract concepts. All it needed to know was that an attack was likely and it had no real chance of winning an altercation. So it made use of the space opened up by the Inspector flinching back.

With the terrible silver taint behind me – or was it us now? - and Nightingale a perceived and quite possibly very real threat to one side, the animal didn’t need to think twice. In a flash I was off and running, claws clicking a staccato beat on the floor.

Nightingale shouted after me. I felt the blast of a spell I didn’t know sirring past and striking the wall. Then his tone suddenly changed.  He’d probably spotted my discarded clothes and come to the obvious conclusion.

I wanted to stop, I really did. I wanted to turn around, walk up to him and talk this through. I wanted to rush back and bury my head in his chest, breathing his scent and forget everything that had happened these last few days.

I didn’t do any of the above. I wouldn’t have known how. Instead I pelted down the hallway at breakneck speed, no real destination in mind except away from the silver, away from the fear, the raw panic and the threat of magic.

What scraps of human logic I had left pointed out that a more precise path would be nice, but that was blown to pieces the moment the scent of a wooded graveyard overlaid with kitchen smells deafened my nose from down the hall. Molly!

I heard her hissing as my paws scrabbled for purchase. I slowed enough to figure out where I had ended up. From what I could make out with my eyes I had run straight past my room and followed the hallway all the way to the great balcony overlooking the entrance hall.

The wolf was only interested in one information, though. Stairs. Further down to the left. Stairs meant I could go down. Down was further away from the silver room, from Nightingale and from Molly.

Picking up speed once more I veered left and hit the stairs at a flat-out run. That turned out to be a mistake. While the wolf had understood the idea of going down, staircases weren’t exactly part of its natural habitat. And while human me knew perfectly well how to navigate some stairs, I was running on double my usual number of limbs and much closer to the ground.

The first three or four steps were fine, then I got my legs tangled. I tripped, tried to catch myself, but again: hands. And before I could even swear mentally, I went tumbling head over fluffy tail down the steps with a startled yowl.

The world around me spun into a dizzying mess of blurred sepia shapes as I went hurtling down, hitting the hard edges of the steps with my side, shoulder, hip, until eventually I landed in a heap at the bottom. My right front paw hit the floor first, the rest of my body followed with impressive momentum and I both heard and felt the bone snap.

I wanted to curse and scream, but I only produced a high whining sound. Panting I felt for the wolf and tugged it back. Its blind flight had got us injured again, it was time for some human intelligence. Carefully I tried to rearrange my too many bloody legs to take the pressure off the break. Otherwise I stayed where I was.

Running was out of the question with my arm or leg or whatever I should call it now. This was confusing.

I had just found a position in which I could inspect the new injury by softly nosing along it, cursing my canine eyesight, when I picked up running footsteps from above.

My ears flicked back to focus on the sound and my nose caught a whiff of pine and tea. Nightingale. Of course. I briefly considered hobbling off on three legs, but discarded the idea quickly. I could hardly handle four healthy legs, I doubted I could handle three and a half. At least not if I wanted to stay ahead of Nightingale.

My whine changed pitch to an anxious keen and I felt my tail wrap tighter around my butt. Ears flat against my head I tried to shrink into myself as much as I could.

A moment later he appeared at the top of the staircase where he stopped rather abruptly.

I could smell his apprehension, but I also detected deep worry and a contradicting sense of relief. I fixated him as much as I could and tried to tell myself that everything would be alright. This was Nightingale, for God’s sake! My governor, my master – even though I didn’t much care for the title as such – but most importantly, my friend. And, okay, my maybe, extremely inappropriate crush.

“Peter?”

Fuck! I had never heard him sound so bloody uncertain. How I wished I could say something, anything to erase the broken quality from his voice. But all I could do was cock my head and whimper slightly in response.

Nightingale exhaled deeply and lowered his head.

“Peter, do you understand what I’m saying?”

I huffed and figured even a wolf can nod its head and tried that.

It must have been quite a sight, but right then and there I could hardly care less.

The scent I associated with relief grew stronger and I felt more than saw the Inspector relax slightly.

“Good. That’s – that’s good”, he breathed. “I was worried that the animal had erased the human. But you can understand me. That’s good.”

Slowly he came down the stairs, all the while keeping up an awkward monologue. For who’s sake, him or mine, I couldn’t say. I tensed involuntarily, but stayed put. I didn’t want to run from him. Never.

Then my treacherous mind dredged up the memory of Simone, of our conversation about how to deal with her and her sisters. I knew Nightingale’s view on non-humans, couldn’t even really fault him for it after so many years of dealing with the worst of the worst on his own. But what did it mean for me, for us? As much I wanted to live in denial for the rest of my days, it was undeniable that I wasn’t exactly human anymore.

I really, really didn’t want to be afraid of him. But with a sinking feeling I had to admit that I was.

A low growl rumbled from my throat before I could stop it. Nightingale froze three steps up the stairs.

“Peter?”

Again with the uncertainty. The sound of his voice cut me deeply. But I just didn’t know what to do.

This whole sodding situation was so terribly messed up. I wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all. I wanted to rant and cry and wake up in my bed with all this just a horrible twisted nightmare.

I clenched my eyes shut and let my nose scrape against the carpet, my growl changing back to a high pitched whine.

Nightingale sighed heavily, the sound carrying almost as much despair as I felt tearing through my insides.

I heard him come down the remaining steps and felt his warmth as he crouched down next to me. His scent enveloped me, carrying promises of safety and home. Promises I so desperately wanted to believe.

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

He was so close that I could more or less clearly make out his face when I opened my eyes. He was balancing on the soles of his feet, hands twitching as if he wanted to touch me, but wasn’t sure he should. He was wearing what I had come to known as his “I-was-heading-to-bed-but-you-interrupted-me-this-better-be-important” clothes, silky Egyptian cotton pj’s and a warm comfortable looking robe on top. His cane was missing.

“I’m so, so sorry. You shouldn’t have to go through this, least of all on your own. I should have realized-“ He broke off, one hand coming up to cover his face, guilt a heavy cloud surrounding him.

I felt absolutely wretched seeing him like this and I hated the fact that I had no real way to talk to him, to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t. He hadn’t been there. He hadn’t known. I didn’t blame him.

I couldn’t stand to do nothing, so in the end I did the only thing I could think of at the time. Carefully I shifted, bringing us even closer together, before gently nosing the hand hanging limply between his knees.

Nightingale flinched at the contact and looked at me in utter surprise. He didn’t pull his hand away.

We stayed like that for an eternal moment. Then he sighed and carefully, slowly moved his hand to the spot between my ears.

I thanked every deity I knew that wolves didn’t purr, because however twisted the whole situation was, Nightingale’s hand on my head felt wonderful.

Instead I had to contend with a soft rumbling sound from deep within my chest. For the first time in what felt like months I felt myself relax. I could hear his familiar soft half-smile in his voice when he spoke.

“We’ll figure this out. I will need to read up on the subject, but we will figure something out.”

I huffed again in agreement, relief flooding my soul and making my ears perk up with hope.

Nightingale was taking this mess better than I had ever thought he would. Hell, he was taking it better than I was. He hadn’t run screaming, he hadn’t called in Frank Caffrey and he hadn’t set my furry butt on fire. And his hand was still tangled in my fur.

He wasn’t fully at ease, though. He was trying to appear relaxed and calm, but the wolf wasn’t fooled easily. As crazy as it sounds, I could smell his struggle. So, while human me was more than happy to take his reassurance at face value, the animal remained cautious.

“I must say I’m glad you decided to stop running, Peter. I had a bit of a hard time keeping up with you.”

Yes, well, no. Stopping hadn’t exactly been a conscious decision on my part. More a decision the stairs had made for me.

I cocked my head to the side, mourning the loss of contact as he retracted his touch. When I was sure I had his full attention I pointedly looked down at my outstretched front leg. The area above where I supposed the wrist was located – note to self: read up on canine anatomy, I would really like to know which part of this new body was which – anyway, the area of the break had swollen noticeably, but I was happy to note that the pain was manageable, surprisingly enough.

“What? – Oh.” Nightingale hissed in what I decided was sympathy, before carefully reaching out to touch the leg.

I tensed up, knowing any touch or movement would set the pain off again and the Inspector stopped. He looked from the injury to my face and back. No, wait, he didn’t look at my face as such, he was looking at my mouth, or I guess snout would be the correct term now. Probably picturing the long sharp teeth I could feel with my tongue. Did he really think I would bite him? And more importantly, did I really know that I wouldn’t?

What relief I had felt before evaporated and I had to look away. My bloody flexible ears flattened against my head. Was this how it was going to be from now on? Our relationship of learning and living together in a strange but glorious camaraderie replaced by tip-toeing around each other? Was every one of our interactions going to be tainted by fear?

I was ripped from my gloom by Nightingale closing the gap and probing the break in my …. Let’s go with arm. The growl I released was a reflex, but his touch disappeared as if he’d been burnt. For a split-second the air bristled with building magic, a reflex on his part, I’m sure, but nevertheless a punch in the gut for me.

No spell was spoken and the magic dissipated, but the damage had been done. He tried to make his retreat look nonchalantly, but I didn’t buy it. It broke my heart.

From a good two steps back, he regarded me in silence, his sharp eyes boring into mine. We stayed frozen in time until he eventually cleared his throat awkwardly and tried to talk like nothing had happened.

“It appears you have broken your leg, Peter. I will call Abdul. I also need to tell him about – I need to tell him.” A deep breath, then “Stay here in the meantime. I will be right back and we can return you to your room.”

I let my head thump on the carpet and he left. My tail twitched in agitation.

Nightingale did a good job of walking quickly while not openly running and I shivered.

All those doubts I had tried to repress rushed back in, eating away at my calm. The wolf was itching to move. Out of the open. Away from the bright lights of the Folly. Away from everything.

A terrible thought slapped me in the face and set my heart racing. What if I had to do just that? Leave the Folly? The police? Maybe even London? It could be argued – horribly convincing, because true –that I posed a threat to everyone around me.

_Monster_. The word and all its consequences echoed through my mind.

As a policeman as well as a wizard Nightingale was duty-bound to protect the people of London. Would he see me as a threat? A problem? Something he had to find a solution for? And would that solution be in the form of imprisonment, exile or a fireball to the head? Maybe all that was stopping him from delivering judgement now was his sense of obligation towards his oath as my master. But what kind of wizard would want a werewolf apprentice?

He wouldn’t keep me on. How could he? I was a monster. _Monster!_

I felt my fur bristle and found myself almost grateful that I was stuck in this foreign body. At least no one would see the anguish on my face.

He was going to ask me, politely and oh so bloody reasonable, to leave. And that was the best case scenario.

And if he did?

I swallowed dryly, but I knew the answer to that. I would go. Because he would be right, I couldn’t stay here. A sensible solution.

_“It’s for your own good, Peter.”_ I could almost hear him say it. His voice would be full of regret and still so bloody proper and distant. And relieved? Or would he be sad to see me go? I kind of hoped he would miss me. If only because I would miss him like crazy.

His voice drifted up, talking on the phone two stories below. I could hear his subdued tone, could detect a foreign hesitance in his description of how everything had gone to hell so very quickly.

And just like that I knew I couldn’t put him through it. I couldn’t wait for him to find the words to release me from my oaths. I couldn’t, wouldn’t hurt him even more if I could help it.

Trembling from my crumbling spirit, the weight of my decision, I slowly got my paws under me and managed to heave myself upwards. Precariously balancing on three legs I carefully tested the injured one to find that I could put at least some weight on it without faceplanting right away.

So far, so good. With tremendous effort I got as firm a grip on myself and the wolf as I could manage.

Then I raised my head to figure out where to slink off to.

I thought about all the times I had considered running away as a kid and the two times I had actually tried it. Back then I had for my own sake. This time I would run for his.

Nightingale was still on the phone in the entrance hall. Molly was…. Somewhere. I tasted the air, trying to pinpoint her scent – upstairs still.

That left the way to the backdoor free.

And then? The thought of leaving the Folly, for good, stole my breath away. This was my home!

_No,_ I told myself. I had to do this. I had to leave. I could never live with myself if I hurt or maybe even killed someone.

Lydia Chesterfield appeared in front of my mind’s eye again, mangled and broken. Torn to shreds by a savage beast. A werewolf. Like me.

With the grisly pictures of her lifeless body haunting me, I carefully took a step, the broken leg sending pain through my body. Surprisingly it was not as excruciating as I had expected. The shock, probably. I felt numb inside.

Limping badly, I started on my way down the hall to the smaller staircase in the back, slowly down to the ground floor, past the door to the cellar, a turn right and there was the exit to the outside world.

I stared at the closed door dumbly. I couldn’t remember much of my trip here. Everything felt unreal. I moved as if in a trance.

This was it then. I forced myself not to look back the way I had come. Somewhere far away I heard Nightingale on the stairs up. In a minute tops he would find me gone. I didn’t know what he would do then. Look for me, probably. But to what end?  

I felt a tear slip through my fur and realized with a start that I was crying.

Footsteps stopping above me somewhere. It was now or never.

“Peter?” Nightingale’s voice from far away. God, I couldn’t-

_I’m doing this for you, sir._ I used my healthy front leg to aim for the doorknob, balancing on my hind legs and managed on the third try. The door swung enough to nose it all the way open.

_I’m sorry, sir. I will miss you._

I slipped out of the Folly and into the night.


	5. A Night in the Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, a big shout-out to my brilliant beta-reader [Mx_Carter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mx_Carter/pseuds/Mx_Carter) ! Thank you so much! You are wonderful! 
> 
> Any mistakes that remain I claim as my own. (Mine! All mine!)
> 
> Now, all that remains to be said is this: Have fun reading and please, let me know what you think in the comments.

Stepping into the backyard of the Folly I was immediately assaulted by London’s noise and stink. Magnified, oh so helpfully, by my canine senses. I was going to have the mother of all headaches before long, but I forced myself to keep moving.

The night was cold. I shivered slightly and my fur ruffled. I had to trust in its insulating capabilities to keep me warm. If not – well, then my journey would be a short one. It was a sobering thought, one of many I found myself confronted with.

Limping towards the street, I realized I had absolutely no idea where to go. I hadn’t really thought this through, had I? If I wanted to avoid people – which I did – then London was pretty much out. Marvellous, considering I was smack in the middle of the city and couldn’t exactly use public transport.

I stopped in the arch connecting the Folly proper to the outside world.

I had been born and raised in London and I was proud of it. I was a city boy. This was where I belonged. But it wasn’t, not anymore. For the first time I felt the city as an ominous presence, looming threateningly ahead.

Where could I go? Where would it be safe, both for me and for others?

_Woodlands._ Images, as if from a long ago dream, painted themselves across my mind. _Soft earth under my paws, open space to run. The scent of the trees surrounding me, caressing me. Birdsong and insects buzzing._ The wolf’s longing became my own.

As if in a trance I set off towards the closest crop of trees, which happened to be in Russel Square, but my human side quickly vetoed that idea. Too close to the Folly, not enough trees, too many people. Reluctantly I adjusted course, heading towards Thornhaugh Street and the Woburn Square Garden. It wouldn’t be much better, but hopefully I could find a secluded spot to hide away and rest for a while. Or I might carry on north, from park to park until eventually I left London behind.

I sighed heavily, but kept going. My leg twinged painfully and I had to admit that resting somewhere was the sounder idea. I just had to hope that I wouldn’t be spotted. How likely that was – I didn’t want to think about.

Hobbling across the – thankfully – deserted Russel Square I started wondering if I could manage to change back. That would be really helpful. My knowledge about werewolves was severely lacking, to say the least, but couldn’t they change back and forth? Then again, movies also told you that the furry side only took over during the full moon, and a glimpse at the dreary sky revealed only the vague idea of a half moon. Great. I probably had the trophy room to thank for that.

As I entered Thornhaugh, a few tiny drops of water hit my nose and made me shiver. It was beginning to rain. Just what I needed. I grumbled in annoyance, but tried to think positively. It was bloody uncomfortable to be out and about, but at least it kept the streets mostly clear of vigilant pedestrians. In my current situation I would take every little advantage I could get.

I still kept my ears pricked, figuring that with my heightened senses I would hear anyone crazy enough to brave the weather before they could spot me and call the police. I eyed the parked cars walking past them, wondering if I might be able to hide under one if necessary. But I quickly discarded the idea. I was too big to fit easily, and my sodding leg would make a speedy wriggle impossible.

Slowly I continued my journey towards self-imposed exile. By now Nightingale had probably realized I had left. The thought dredged up more doubts and insecurities. Had I done the right thing? Would he think I had abandoned him, like Lesley? I shook my head sharply, drops of water spraying from my fur.

I’d wanted to protect him, damn it! Spare him the decision of sending me away or locking me up. Or worse.

_But maybe_ , a treacherous voice whispered in my mind, _maybe if you hadn’t run away like a coward, you could have stayed. Worked something out._ The whole sodding magical community seemed to be held together by unwritten agreements and pure stubbornness. Maybe we could have made it work.

Again I shook my head. There was simply no way Nightingale could keep me on. If he even wanted to.

Still, there might have been a better way to handle this. If I were completely honest with myself, I would have to admit that I’d panicked. I’d panicked, and made a hasty, not really well thought out decision, and run. Blindly.

_Without saying goodbye_.

I stopped across the street from the Square Garden.

Looking back at the dark, deserted street behind me, I had to lock my healthy legs firmly in place. The longing to just go back and hope for the best was strangling me, stealing my breath.

I couldn’t do it.

I turned again. If I headed past this tiny park, there would be a slightly bigger one right behind it, across the street. Unfortunately, my injured leg chose that moment to hand in its resignation. It buckled under me and I only just kept myself from hitting the ground.

With a growl I managed to catch myself on three legs, swaying with exhaustion both physical and mental. Once more I looked back to where the Folly formed a part of the city’s night-time silhouette. The memory of my nice warm bed was enough to make me want to cry.

I felt myself tremble, the persistent rain invading my fur and leeching away every last shred of warmth and comfort. The adrenaline that had fuelled my actions so far was deserting me quickly. I was dead on my feet. It was only a matter of moments before my body’s need for rest would drop me where I stood. All I could do was decide whether to crash in the treacherous security of the park ahead or somewhere out in the open. There was no way my aching limbs would carry me much further.

With a heavy heart I turned my back on Thornhaugh Street and Russel Square in the distance. The broken leg didn’t offer any support anymore and I found myself reduced to an awkward, three-legged hopping shamble across the street. Once there I wanted to howl in despair – literally; must be a wolf thing - but I managed to stop myself in time. The Garden was closed during the night. A heavy gate barred the way.

The tremor in my body was growing more pronounced by the minute. I needed to find shelter and I needed to find it now.

Had I been in my human form, I could have just blasted the bloody lock open. Not the most subtle approach, okay, but by now I was far past caring. But in this form I probably couldn’t – or could I? Shuffling painfully back, I eyed the old gate lock. It wasn’t much in the way of security.

I looked at the street running along the park. There was no way I could make it to Gordon Square Garden behind this one. Besides, it was likely locked as well.

My gaze drifted back to the gate.

I could try. I wasn’t very hopeful that it would work, but still. What did I have to lose? Brain tissue, my traitor of a logical mind replied. I could thoroughly fry what was left of my brain cells.

I let my head thunk against the gate, wondering vaguely if wolves could cry.

I wasn’t prepared for the gate swinging open under my weight.

This time I didn’t catch myself. With an undignified yelp I landed in a heap on the ground.

My sensitive nose pressed into wet soil, I blinked owlishly up at the open gate. I could have sworn it was locked. Granted, my eyesight was still nothing to write home about, but still. It had been locked. Hadn’t it?

As I lay there like a dirty rug on the ground, the drizzle was slowly soaking through my fur and chilling the sensitive skin beneath. I shivered and whined.

I needed to move. It didn’t matter if the bloody gate had been locked or not. What mattered was that it was open now. What mattered was that I could crawl into some greenery and hide from the world, and hopefully also from the mess my life had become.

It took all my waning concentration to drag myself up and into the nearest foliage.

Once I was reasonably sure that no part of me was poking out of the leaves, I curled up into a tight furry bundle.

Trembling with exhaustion I fell asleep to the memory of sharp grey eyes and a smile of fondness and exasperation.

 

 

 

 

It was still dark when I startled awake, but I quickly found I had more pressing problems to deal with than figuring out what had woken me.

Fuck me, it was cold. And wet. And – with a gasp I tried to sit up, but my muscles were stiff and seized up painfully. I was shivering like jelly in an earthquake. Mentally I ran through my best swear words.

Looking around, I tried to remember where I was and how the hell I’d gotten here.

Inky darkness surrounded me. I could hear leaves rustling, and my face was so close to the ground that the rich smell of wet earth clogged my nose.

Distorted memories of intense smells and deafening sounds filled my head. I tried to focus my mind, nudge it into shape. And encountered a change. A certain canine presence, intertwined with what I considered me in my mind. The events of the night rushed back. If I could have curled up any tighter I would have.

The tiny movement I did manage was enough to remind me of something else, though. My right arm was pounding. It was – wait a minute. I carefully shifted as much I could, reaching up to feel my face with my left hand. My flat, furless, human face. No wonder I was freezing! I must have changed back while sleeping.

Cursing a bit more colourfully, I worked hard to move from my curled up position. I was stark naked. If I stayed where I was, I’d be dead by daylight. I’d go down in Met history as the crazy ethnic wizard copper who ended up naked in a public park, frozen into a human-sized popsicle.

I needed to get up. I needed to move and find clothes.

And then? I took a deep fortifying breath. Then I would continue on. It would be much easier travelling north. I could be out of the city by the end of the day.

I had finally got my knees under me when a painfully familiar voice made me freeze.  No pun intended.

“Peter!“ It was Nightingale, his voice cutting through the icy London night. I vaguely recalled hearing something earlier and figured his calling had woken me up. He kept his voice down enough to not wake the neighbourhood, while still being clearly audible.

“Peter!” I sucked in a sharp breath. He sounded almost desperate.

“Peter, please!” I flinched as his voice cracked slightly on the second word. “I’m not going to hurt you!”

_But I might hurt you_ , I didn’t say. I didn’t dare move, but my violent shivering could bust me regardless.

“Please answer me!” He was closer than before.

Words fail to describe how badly I wanted to yell “I’m here! Take me home!” I wanted to jump up and run over to him. I wanted to believe that we could fix this, that everything would be alright. But it wouldn’t, would it? I was _different_ now. How had Zach put it? _Made different._

The leaves to my left rustled, but the sound was too low to be Nightingale, so I ignored it. Big mistake.  I almost jumped out of my skin when a cold wet nose drove into my side, snuffling happily. I had a second to try and not freak out, then Toby was skipping in front of my face yapping.

“Why-? What?” I stuttered, though I would like to remind you that I was freezing, so there’s your explanation for that. It wasn’t because I was too shocked to form a coherent response, no, absolutely not.

“Peter!” Nightingale came striding quickly towards us through the greenery.

I scrambled up and back as much as I could – which frankly wasn’t much, but I did at least manage to hoist myself up until I was hunched on my knees. Trying to keep the pain at a minimum, I cradled my broken arm against my chest.

I got another moment to fully appreciate the fact that my governor was about to see me curled up and stark bollock naked in a public park that I had broken into fuck knew how, in the middle of the night, with a small rat-like terrier doing the excited butt-wriggle around me. _This is my life…._

Then Nightingale was upon me and all I could focus on was the deep heart-wrenching worry in his usually stoic grey eyes. He stopped a short step away from me and immediately got down on his knees, not caring about the cool wet ground and his no doubt immaculate trousers.

For a long moment neither of us said a word. We could only stare at each other.

Then a violent shiver shook my frame and I’m pretty sure I heard him utter a word that I’d have received a sharp glare for. Before I could process what he was doing, he’d slipped out of his ruinously expensive coat and dropped it around my shoulders.

On my frozen skin his body-warm coat felt like a furnace, but that wasn’t what caused my breath to hitch. It was Nightingale’s coat, and his scent seemed to be interwoven with the fabric like a brilliant golden streak. It surrounded me, calmed me. It spoke to me of home and safety.

I burrowed into the warmth and only looked up when I heard Nightingale sigh heavily.

“Peter”, he stopped, seemingly unsure how to continue. He’d never had a problem talking to me. I used my left hand to tuck his coat tighter around me.

“Why did you run?” I couldn’t bear to meet his eyes, his voice quiet and with a completely foreign broken tone that I hated to hear.

What could I say to that? A million different answers came to mind, each as confusing and torn as my reasoning had been all night. In the end I settled on the heart of the matter. “I wanted to protect you.”

I was still shivering badly, so my voice came out haltingly and with an annoying stutter, but I got the words out and almost wished I hadn’t. Nightingale looked away, but I had seen the cracks in his mask growing. This was hell. For both of us.

Taking a deep breath, he faced me once more.

“Did you think you would attack me?”

_Yes. No. Maybe?_  I shook my head. “I’m a monster,” I whispered.

“No! Peter, no. Don’t say that. Don’t even think that!” The glare he sent my way was so familiar, I couldn’t help a tiny smile.

“Wasn’t it you who told me again and again that what makes us people is not what we are born as, but what we make of it? You were the one who argued for Ms. Fitzwilliam and her sisters. You have spent hours combing the library for texts on how to contain and handle almost every being you’ve met so far.” A warm hand settled on my shoulder and I leant into the touch before I could stop myself. “Yes, this … _situation_ is far from ideal.” Understatement of the century. I huffed mirthlessly and he inclined his head ruefully.

“I do admit that I have some concerns about how to proceed from here, but Peter?” He waited for me to meet his gaze. “I’m not afraid of you.” _Liar_ , I thought, _I can smell it on you._ But a nice sentiment. And in all honesty, wasn’t I just as afraid? Maybe even more so? “Nor do I or have I ever thought of you as a monster. And I will not have you think such of yourself either.”

If only it were that simple. I couldn’t just wish away the foreign presence in my mind. The one that had – in only a few short hours – wrapped itself up in my very self so tightly that I couldn’t fully decide where I ended and it began.

Despite my reservations I ended up nodding. What else could I do? I had run – well, limped really – and all it had got me was frozen balls and probably the most awkwardly emotional conversation I’d ever had, and with my governor no less. And I was naked for it, let’s not forget about that lovely detail.

It was obvious that Nightingale doubted my acceptance, but he knew to pick his battles.

His tone got serious again. “Do you think you can stand?”

I took a moment to think about it. “Maybe?”

His hand was still on my shoulder, a reassuring heat seeping through the burrowed coat.

“Alright”, he nodded to himself. “Here is what we’re going to do. I will pull you up and steady you, then we’ll take a short walk to the nearest bench where I will request medical assistance. Don’t give me that look, Peter. You walked on a broken ….. bone, and you’re hypothermic to boot. You are going to get checked out at the hospital, am I understood?”

I didn’t like it. There’d be lots and lots of people in A&E, not to mention the smell and the noise. But I was hurting, I was exhausted and I was freezing. And Nightingale was using his commander-in-charge tone of voice, and I’ve always had a hard time ignoring that.

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. And Peter?” His eyes bored into mine. I swallowed thickly. “Don’t think I will allow you out of my sight. Your reasons may have been noble, but it is my job to protect you, not the other way around. I refuse to give up on you.”

My eyes burned and I had to blink hastily. I could hear honesty in his voice. I wanted to believe him. I wanted this thing, this crazy, terrifying, wonderful job to continue. I wanted to stay a copper. I wanted to stay an apprentice. But most of all, I simply wanted to stay.

I couldn’t get my tongue to work, so I only nodded shakily.

Nightingale squeezed my shoulder, then he shifted and carefully gripped my left elbow while his other arm snaked around my waist. “On three?” he asked, his breath ghosting against my ear.

I gritted my teeth, tried to hold my broken right arm as still as possible and had just a second or so left to appreciate the fact that this was the closest I would likely ever get to my naked self being held by Nightingale. It was at once a thrilling and deeply saddening thought.

Then he reached three and I’m pretty sure I passed out for a few seconds. I know I was cussing like a very inventive sailor and my whole body screamed in protest at the movement, but eventually I was up. Not standing, exactly, more heavily leaning on Nightingale, but upright was upright.

We both took a moment to catch our breath. Toby had lost interest in us and was off across the park marking trees and sniffing the ground. Neither of us were too worried; from experience we knew he’d find his own way back to the Folly where Molly would spoil him with chunks of meat.

“Ready?” The Inspector was like a furnace where I was pressed against his side, and I wouldn’t have honestly minded staying like that for a while longer.  Sadly, one doesn’t just cuddle with their guv, especially not while dressed in a borrowed coat and nothing else.

I vaguely remembered something about hypothermia messing with your thinking and decided to write my horribly clingy thoughts off as cold-induced. Easier to deal with.

I mumbled something that could have been a “yes, sir” and with a slight adjustment of his grip on me, we set off towards the park entrance.

Our trip was short, slow and about as elegant as a ballet-dancing hippo, but eventually Nightingale deposited me on a bench and took out the phone I had given him for Christmas.

With one hand gripping my shoulder – and I would like to say that I didn’t need it to stay sitting upright, but that would be a lie – he dialled 999. I zoned out for the conversation.

My mind was circling foggily around the question of how everything had gone pear-shaped so fucking quickly. Yesterday, just a few hours ago, I had been bedridden and in pain, but I had been human. Or at least I had still felt human, believed myself to be human. Now? Now I didn’t know what exactly I was.

I was a werewolf, obviously. But what did that mean? Supernatural identity politics had always done my head in a little. Was I dangerous? I couldn’t help but think so. But going through my panicked flight carefully, I had to admit that I’d never truly felt out of control. Not that I had met any people, really – and thank every deity for that. Except for Nightingale, but he was family, a concept I felt the wolf understood quite well. Would I react differently to strangers?

I chanced a worried glance at the Inspector. He met my eyes while talking in clipped, serious tones to whatever unfortunate soul was on the other end of the line. Again I was struck by how much worry was written into his usually inscrutable gaze. Quickly I looked away again.

I shivered, curling into myself. The coat was not nearly enough to battle the cold. Nightingale’s grip tightened and I saw from the corner of my eye that he finished his call and slipped the phone back into his jacket.

I looked up through my lashes to watch him scowl at the empty street. As if he had expected the ambulance to materialize the second he finished talking and was now severely cross at the London Ambulance Service for being subpar.

I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips.

“I’m sure they’ll be here soon, sir”, I managed to get out haltingly. Nightingale turned to raise one elegant eyebrow at me. Then he sighed and sat down on the bench next to me, his grip switching to one arm slung around my shivering shoulders.

We sat there in silence listening for the approaching siren. And if I leaned into Nightingale a bit more than was absolutely necessary, neither of us felt the need to mention it.  

 


End file.
